


You Turn Myself To Me

by nuitdemesreves (mesohorany)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Brother/Brother Incest, Did I mention this is incest, Don't Like Don't Read, Explicit Sexual Content, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I am Absolutely Going to Hell for this, I mean like REALLY PWP, Incest, Loss Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mischa is the only one who can handle Sash when he loses, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 05:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16469894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mesohorany/pseuds/nuitdemesreves
Summary: Sascha loses early at the US Open and he's sick of being criticized for his slam performances. Mischa gets it. AKA totally shameless porn without plot.





	You Turn Myself To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer, as usual: this is INCEST. Don't like it, don't read it. This totally did not happen in real life and I am in no way suggesting that it did. A girl can dream.
> 
> This is for all my babes who are dying of thirst over on We'll Build Our Altar Here, because same. Thanks for sticking with me lovelies :) This story is set in the same universe (post-Altar) but you don't have to read it to understand this; each work can stand alone.
> 
> Title taken from "Machine Gun" by Portishead.

Sascha was there when Mischa lost, so Mischa was there when Sascha lost.

This one hurt. He’d had chances; he should have capitalized, and Mischa sympathized because he’d handed his first round over wrapped in bows and jewels and perfect paper, I don’t want it, you take it. Sascha was so young and he was figuring out how to deal with expectation but he wasn’t there yet and it was brutal.

Mischa knew it would be bad tonight.

He didn’t go to Sascha in public; he knew better than to let Sash have access to him under scrutiny right now. They were both careless when they were angry and they’d almost gotten caught before: rucking desperately against each other in a locker room shower with just a flimsy plastic curtain concealing them from the dozens of people in the immediate area, Mischa cutting off Sascha’s wanton groans with his mouth or his hand or two fingers shoved between Sascha’s plum lips so he could bite down on something, anything to keep him from giving them away with a noise. Risky semi-handjobs under blankets watching movies in the dark with their parents, making out in empty under-stadium hallways knowing that at any time someone could walk in. Danger was part of the allure of their relationship; it turned them both on to know that they were barely hiding what they were in the dark, what they were behind closed doors. Everyone called them strangely close; they laughed off the observations and then later while Sascha was fucking himself deep on Mischa’s iron-hard cock they laughed at how they could conceal themselves in plain sight. No one would guess the answer because no one would believe the answer. They were strangely close not just because they’d done everything together since Sascha had been born or because Mischa had raised Sascha as much as their parents or because they were best friends. No, they were strangely close because they’d been fucking around since Sascha was sixteen and it was intense and satisfying and inflaming and it had turned into something else.

Something a whole lot like monogamy.

When Sascha bulldozed into his hotel room Mischa was sprawled across the bed waiting for him, on his back bronze and bare from the waist up, watching. It was long since they had shared rooms with their parents because they could afford to split off now and because they were grown men and grown men did things that parents couldn’t be involved with. Irina and Alex would never know that their sons were doing these things with each other.

“Hey, Sash,” said Mischa with no fear, and Sascha said, “Jesus fucking Christ, Mischa,” and dropped his bag on the floor and looked up at the ceiling shaking his head and biting his lip and Mischa knew he was trying not to scream out loud. He was not afraid of Sascha’s rage. He liked the violet violence of teethmark bruises and the way Sascha fisted his hand in Mischa’s hair to hold his head back when he was frustrated.

“I know.”

“I’m a fucking failure.”

“The hell you are.”

“I’m fucking done with this. I shouldn’t be losing this early in slams. There’s something wrong with me.”

“Sascha,” said Mischa flatly, “there is nothing wrong with you except the fact that you’re heaping pressure on yourself when you don’t need to. You’re going to get used to it. Trust me.”

“I just fucking gave that to him,” said Sascha, aware of what Mischa was saying, obstinately blocking him out. His English was ragged, disjointed when he was furious and now was no exception. “Like, what top five player does that? Is that a joke?”

Mischa regarded him, waiting, but Sascha stood staring and breathing raggedly waiting for him to speak so he answered.

“You want to talk about it or you want to fuck about it?”

Sascha’s eyes went punch-black from dark lust.

“You know what I want.”

“Then get the fuck over here,” said Mischa, and Sascha gave this _rrrrrrrr_ in his throat like a preying wolf and strode over to the bed. Mischa was already on his haunches and he helped Sascha rip his shirt over his shower-damp head, pulled him down on the mattress, let him shove a knee up between his thighs to search him. He was already hard and Sascha was too; they’d been doing this long enough that their bodies were trained to expect what came after fury.

“Fuck, I can’t believe you’re here,” growled Sascha into Mischa’s ear, tongue out, tasting him. “Thought you left last night to go to Kazan for a few days.”

“No,” said Mischa. “I stayed. I was in the stands the whole time.”

Sascha kissed him, dragged his fingers through Mischa’s curls, shook his head. “Why?”

“You know why.” Mischa kissed him back, licked deep in Sascha’s mouth, reached between them and grabbed for his cock. “I’d rather be here with you. I never know when you might need me.”

Mischa had a thing: when he lost he liked to leave the city right away, abandon the bad juju, reset. The exception: when Sascha played the same tournament, and won, Mischa tried to stick around, fight his instinct. They both were always there when the other had need. Selfless.

“Now,” said Sascha roughly, and Mischa knew he meant _always_. Sascha tried his best for independence because he was afraid of distracting Mischa from his endeavors but Mischa would have moved mountains with a spade and a shovel for Sascha and it went both ways.

“Take what you need, then,” said Mischa with his hand still firm between Sascha’s legs, and Sascha rolled his head back, hissed, clawed at the waistband of Mischa’s shorts until with a clumsy joint effort they were successfully off and balled on the floor. Mischa was gold and strong and lean and Sascha’s cross flashed like garish iniquity at the hollow between his collarbones. Sascha bent down and took it between his teeth and sucked it in, slid his hand down the flat expanse of Mischa’s abdomen, fingered the thatch of black hair that arrowed along his lower belly. Mischa watched his progress, understanding that beneath the tenderness of his touch Sascha’s capacity to bruise was endless.

Sascha reached Mischa’s swollen seeping cock and shook his head.

“Mischa, fuck.”

“Been waiting for you,” rasped Mischa, shameless. “Two days is a long time.”

“A hundred years,” agreed Sascha. He gripped Mischa from base to crown and slid his thumb flat over the slit and licked the resultant wetness from his skin, closed his eyes. “You were ready for me.”

“Uh huh.” Mischa curled his fingers around the back of Sascha’s neck, pulled him in. “Let me see you.”

Sascha grabbed Mischa’s hands and rested them on his hips, let Mischa undress him, watching his brother’s blacked-out pupils. Usually when Sascha lost Mischa let him boss because rage stoked Sascha’s instinct to pound him through the floor but it was also in Sascha’s nature to be a slut for submission and Mischa knew he liked to be ordered around. He let Sascha scramble to his knees and rose up to meet him, reaching between them to take Sascha’s cock in his hand, hold it against his own. They both purred for the contact and Sascha with his fat pretty lips split open from lust dropped his eyes to watch as Mischa stroked them together, slow, slow, torturous.

“Me or you,” said Mischa on hot breath, stomach shuddering, all want. He loved this, jacking them together so he felt every twitch of Sascha’s raging cock against his own, how his slit wept precome and doused them both so Mischa could mix fluid with fluid and find that perfect slick rhythm. The first time they had done this Sascha had been sixteen and he’d had an orgasm after five strokes; crying out into Mischa’s damp shoulder in the dark, and with Sascha’s come drying on his hand Mischa had finished himself on Sascha’s pale perfect stomach.

Sascha _mmmm_ ed with his head lolled back, fingers clamped around Mischa’s wrist, a little bit destroyed. “Me,” he said, and that meant that he wanted top, wanted to pound Mischa into the mattress.

“Okay,” said Mischa, and still he stroked, pitched forward to bite gently at Sascha’s delicate collarbone. Sascha would stop him when he needed to. He always did.

When they’d started fucking around Mischa hadn’t let Sascha top for ages and ages; Sascha hadn’t pushed or asked much but Mischa knew he had been thinking about it so on his nineteenth birthday after a tequila shot or three he’d lured Sascha to his bedroom, let him watch while he removed every article of clothing, and lay back on the mattress spread out bare and needy for him. He’d never let anyone inside of him before but they had trust more stalwart than iron and steel and copious amounts of lube and Sascha had been letting Mischa fuck him for a little over two years at that point and he came every fucking time from both internal and external stimulation so Mischa figured, fuck it, happy birthday. That night Sascha laid him down on the bed with huge fluffed pillows spread all behind him and kissed every inch of his body and made sure he was comfortable as a cloud before he entered him, moving slowly and tenderly taking his cues from the expressions on Mischa’s face, and it was some of the sweetest love they’d ever made. Mischa loved that Sascha knew to handle him with care because he might have been older but he was porcelain and he’d given Sascha more than he’d ever given anyone. Sascha was the kindest, wisest person he knew, and he was nineteen. 

Now he was twenty-one and they’d both gained some experience; consequently they’d discovered that sometimes headboard-shattering sex was the way to go about it. Tonight Mischa saw this in Sascha’s eyes and he couldn’t help but groan for it.

“What,” growled Sascha, arching his hips so Mischa would pump faster, and he was rewarded when Mischa increased his pace.

“Gonna be black and blue tomorrow, huh,” said Mischa, and Sascha laughed out loud.

“Do you want that?”

“If you want it,” said Mischa fervently. “I told you. Take what you need.”

“I need this, all of this,” said Sascha, shuddering. “God, Meesh. You know I’d come for this.”

“Me too.” Mischa kissed him on his pretty bruised mouth, licked inside his lips like he was starving, almost lost his grip for how wet they both were, steady pouring streams down all sides. Sascha’s cock against his was jerking consistently with every upward flick of Mischa’s hand and his stomach was quivering and Mischa knew he wasn’t wrong: if he kept this up they’d both be done. “Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck.” Sascha was spitting his words now, incentivized. With obvious effort he wrapped a fierce hand around Mischa’s wrist, stilled that furious motion. “Uh. Wanna be inside you.”

“Thought so.” Mischa’s voice was a growl and a purr. “You have lube?”

“Yeah. That drawer – ” Sascha pointed to his bedside table, which did indeed contain a drawer “ – although do we even fucking need it at this point?”

He swiped his thumb over the weeping crown of Mischa’s cock, sucked it into his mouth again, and Mischa kissed him, tasted himself. By now he should have been used to it but he could never quite get there, always thrilled for the discovery of his own essence on his brother’s tongue.

“Honestly, probably not,” said Mischa, but he retrieved the item in question anyway, just in case. “You’re sopping.”

“Whose fault is that, huh,” said Sascha, playfully, and Mischa grinned, flicked the tube at him, flopped back and spread his thighs. Sascha squeezed some lube onto his fingers and split it between his cock and Mischa’s forefinger. Commandingly he said, “Put it in yourself.”

Sascha had had a thing for voyeurism since he was a teenager; he’d walked in on Mischa jerking off and with wide fascinated eyes he’d watched until Mischa had spilled his seed gasping all over his hand and into the open toilet bowl, eyes never leaving Sascha’s face. It was around that time that things had started lighting on fire between them and ever since then Sascha had proved his steadiest kink to be watching. He liked to play that most vicious of games in which they could not touch each other, only look, and many times they’d exploded into their own palms gasping each other’s names, on their knees inches apart but touching only with their eyes. Mischa was used to it by now but at first he’d been shy and sometimes he still was. Tonight, however, that was not the case; he slid two fingers inside of himself with ease, crooked them so he’d tease himself, and when he sucked in a sharp involuntary breath Sascha swore out loud. 

“So fucking hot, Mischa.”

“You are,” gasped Mischa, watching Sascha’s hand rolling lube all over his furiously pulsing cock, and just when he was about to give Sascha a nudge the younger reached over to smack his hand away.

“Stop teasing me.”

“You fucking love it,” said Mischa, and Sascha growled.

“Want you on your knees,” he demanded, and he leaned over and pressed his mouth hard against Mischa’s own and bit into his lower lip and then Mischa was tearing away from him, needing it as much as Sascha did, one hand between his legs palming himself from sheer need. He let Sascha force him over so he was on all fours and then Sascha’s palms were gripping his hips and when he felt his brother’s fingers asking for entrance he wriggled so Sash would know it was okay, yes, go.

“Fuck.”

Mischa wasn’t even sure who’d said it first.

Sascha folded his fingers in and out of Mischa’s hole, gently at first, then harder, and when Mischa was panting and raking his fingernails against his outer thigh to stop himself jerking off right then and there Sascha said,

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Mischa, and there was that horrible instantaneous moment of emptiness and then he felt the head of Sascha’s cock nestling against his entrance and then he was breached, head turned to the side swearing into his shoulder as behind him Sascha practically blacked out sliding slowly inside of him, always unprepared for the way Mischa’s body gripped him and stroked him and pulsed, all warmth.

“Fuuuuuuuuck, Meesh,” he whined, “you’re so goddamned tight, you’re so tight.”

This was a family trait. Mischa remembered the first time he’d stuck it in, how he’d lost it almost immediately for how perfectly suffocating Sascha’s body was, how accepting and sucking and hot he’d been. Nothing had changed; every time they had sex it was a spiritual awakening, nerve-thrumming mind-shattering pleasure. Mischa would have happily worshipped daily at Sascha’s altar had they not been so frequently torn apart by their different schedules, but now he was filled to the brim with Sascha’s massive girth and he was ready for him to fucking move.

“Saaaaaaash,” he hissed, and Sascha didn’t even bother to ask if he was ready because he knew, Mischa was rucking back against him and whining at the back of his throat and that was all the affirmation he needed. They knew each other so well they could speak together in silent tongues: Mischa had confessed his initial interest through body language and Sascha had been able to read him like a large-print novel: stark, plain as day. Half of the time their communication was eye contact and insinuation. How else could they survive the relationship they had created in a world that would have crucified them if it had known?

Leaning on Mischa’s sweat-streaked back Sascha latched on to his brother’s forearm and began to move, already blind for the pleasure, mouth against the side of Mischa’s throat wrecking the skin with his teeth. Years ago Mischa had spitefully hated the fact that Sascha had grown taller than him but now he loved it, loved that Sascha was so statuesque that he could reach Mischa’s ear, his mouth, his throat while Mischa was prone on all fours for him. Sash was a vicious biter and often Mischa came away from their bed peppered with furious bruises the color of deepest aubergine, bruises he’d had to hide or explain away over the years, vague explanations of mystery lovers while Sascha in the background smirked and plucked at his racquet strings in silence. The way Sash was going right now Mischa knew he’d have to take precaution with dress the next day, use cloth to conceal the angry purple and yellow and green of his accosted skin. That was okay, he liked reminders, liked to trace and push at the discoloration and feel that slight pain twinge just to remind himself of where Sascha had been. When Sascha dug his teeth into the crevice between Mischa’s shoulder and throat he groaned, arched his neck, let Sascha sink in.

Around them there was nothing but faint lamplight and the purr of the air conditioner. Mischa could feel the metal around Sascha’s neck resting on his skin, the medallion and the cross that had both once belonged to Mischa, reminders for when he had to be absent. To Mischa’s knowledge Sascha had not taken them off once they had been bestowed upon him and he thought of the way Sascha always held them between his teeth, that oral fixation. He thrust his arm blindly back and Sascha gave him his hand, let Mischa take it and pull it to his mouth and suck two of his long elegant fingers down his throat.

Sascha tossed his head and his sweaty hair flew out of his magnificent eyes and he could feel that he’d last for an embarrassingly short amount of time if he didn’t slow down but he couldn’t stop, the anger was high and scathing in his blood and it felt like retribution to thrust inside of Mischa like this, leashed by nothing. He cried out and Mischa popped off his fingers, knowing.

“Sash,” he said like a warning, and Sascha keened, helpless, but checked his pace.

“I can’t help it,” he said, and his voice was wrecked. “I haven’t fucked you in forever.”

Mischa licked his lips over a smile for that, sank back onto Sascha’s cock so he was engulfed again, panted when the resultant nerve endings within him exploded. “I’m aware. Jesus, Sash. I can feel you in my stomach.”

Sascha rumbled, pleased. “I can always feel you there, too.” He slipped his hand down between Mischa’s thighs, toying with him, assured. “I’m so fucking close, I’m sorry.” 

“For the third time,” said Mischa patiently, free hand death gripped around the blankets bunched at his side, “I told you to take what you need. This is for you. Cum in me.”

Sascha _mmm_ ed and the sound began in his stomach, deep. “You ruin me when you talk like that.”

“Yeah, why do you think I do it,” said Mischa, naughty. He looked down at himself, the purple angry crown of his cock leaking piquant fluid through Sascha’s fingers. “Go. Do what you do best. I’ll take care of myself.”

“Yeah? What do I do best?” Sascha already had his fingers creeping up through Mischa’s hair, clutching; he liked to yank Mischa’s head back while he finished, got off on the control. Mischa went wild for it. He’d never known that HE had a mild kink for this type of submission until Sascha showed him what a thrill it could be, to leave your pleasure in someone’s hands like that.

“Fuck me through the mattress,” said Mischa, and again Sascha gave that satisfied purr, just this time it was more of a growl. With authority he pulled back on Mischa’s hair, bucked up with his hips so Mischa was whining for him, for that punch of instant pleasure, but he didn’t let go of Mischa’s cock and he was jerking him in rhythm so Mischa got it from front and back. That was Sascha’s methodology: he gave what he got, and he was a master. Mischa liked to think that he had taught Sascha well but their relationship had been such a mutual give and receive for its entirety that he couldn’t take credit. They had learned together.

They were still learning together.

Mischa wrapped his fingers around Sascha’s wrist and let himself be used.

Both of Sascha’s hands were occupied but he used the strength of his thighs and abdominal muscles to thrust, leaned on Mischa to keep them steady, withdrawing again and again just to bury his cock to the hilt in Mischa’s heat. Under his torso Mischa was butter, malleable, stretched to max capacity for Sascha’s girth. Sascha was all nerves, all sensation, blood jackhammering and fingers going numb with the building crescendo of his orgasm. There was nothing in his mind but blank space, he was shut off, using the in-out of his hips to lead the rhythm of his hand on Mischa’s cock, and the ragged breaths from his brother’s throat cued Sascha to the fact that he, too, was approaching climax. He clenched his teeth, spat a curse into Mischa’s fevered skin.

“Sascha,” purred Mischa, “come for me.”

Sascha groaned, slammed his hips forward, vision faded out at the edges, the color of crowfeathers stamped by iridescent stars. Mischa’s body was pulsing pressure around him, sinfully tight, coaxing. The first time Mischa had let Sascha blow a load inside of him it had been an out of body experience; Sascha had been so worked up and so rent to pieces by the sensation and the bond that when they’d curled up together afterward he’d nearly cried. It was the same feeling three years later: Mischa was Sascha’s world and he had given him everything and the idea that he’d let Sascha do something so intimate with him was incomprehensible. His stomach rippled with warmth and stars and he gave a bone-deep little groan. 

“I’m gonna – ”

“Yes,” hissed Mischa, pushing his ass back against Sascha’s riled body, and then Sascha was crying out and pouring into Mischa his warm milky seed, burying every hurt that he’d come to Mischa to solve. For half a second his hand went slack on Mischa’s cock but Mischa kept him going with the sheer force of leftover movement and the tip of Sascha’s weeping cock was grazing constantly against his sweet spot and within instants he was spurting cum into Sascha’s palm, breath hitching, eyes rolling briefly back into his head for the feeling. They were good at this, at timing it right; rarely did one wait more than thirty seconds after the other for release. Sascha released Mischa’s hair and planted his mouth into Mischa’s ear and rode it out with him, humming, drained.

After a shaky moment he withdrew, pulled Mischa around so he could kiss him on the lips. Mischa let him, pressed his mouth to Sascha’s hot forehead, drew him close.

“Shower with me,” he said, because he knew his brother’s routine and he knew that his emotions were still raw.

Sascha nodded and let himself be pulled up; Mischa led him with a sticky hand to the bathroom, where he ran burning water and pulled sascha gently in under it, stroked his lips and cheekbones and the knobs of his spine. Watched the reflective jade of his beautiful emotional eyes. Beneath that hot stream of water Sascha collapsed into Mischa’s chest and sobbed like a child and Mischa held his head and shushed him, rasped Russian lullabies in his ear, let him duel it out with himself. In public Sasha was stone, sass, brooding thundercloud, but in private for Mischa Sascha was one of the most emotionally open people Mischa had ever known. He had to purge himself like poison of hurts like these before he could right himself.

When they were clean and Sascha’s tears had subsided Mischa took him to bed, folded Sascha’s long body back into his arms, promised him in each of the three languages they spoke that everything would come to pass, that this would fade and the anger would only serve to bolster him. Mischa was the only person that Sascha ever believed and this instance was no different. He fell into lulled sleep with Mischa’s voice rolling above his head and his towhead on Mischa’s dark chest and when he woke in the early hours of the morning it was to Mischa’s smile and the overwhelming surety that he was going to be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> I am 110% going to burn for this one. I wrote this in like an hour after Sash lost at the US Open so I'm sorry if it sucks, but slow burns are hard for me and this was begging, begging, begging to be written.
> 
> Also, normally, I think I prefer Mischa as top, but I can see Sash being this furious hellcat when he loses and he definitely earned this one.


End file.
